


Seedlings Turn Overnight to Sunflowers

by FearNoEvil



Series: Joly Week [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 4 Things, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Joly Week 2021, Vignette, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearNoEvil/pseuds/FearNoEvil
Summary: 1831 - spring, summer, autumn and winter.  The colors of the world are changing day by day, but Joly is always there to look after his friends.
Relationships: Enjolras & Joly (Les Misérables), Feuilly & Joly (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Joly & Bossuet Laigle, Joly & Jean Prouvaire
Series: Joly Week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136216
Comments: 18
Kudos: 13





	Seedlings Turn Overnight to Sunflowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts "Seasons" and "Hurt/Comfort" for Day 3 of Joly Week! (Better late than never! And maybe "Joly Week" is more of a state of mind . . .)
> 
> This is really just four (slightly) shorter vignettes for every season of the year thrown together into one fic! I liked this concept so much that I willingly tried to increase my workload from 7 fics for Joly Week (which I could already BARELY handle!) to BASICALLY 10! Your humble author is a bit nuts, and is paying her penalty. But I'm trading "perfect" for "done" on this one, because I need to move on with my life . . .
> 
> And the "summer" one probably doesn't even qualify as hurt/comfort, just a weird disjointed buddy comedy in the middle of all this! But the format was useful to help me cover more friendships! So this probably has the largest appearances of Grantaire, Feuilly and Enjolras! (Jehan and Bossuet have bigger roles in other stories.) Apparently I'm restraining myself for now in regards to my wild evangelism for Joly & Enjolras friendship content! (There's a longer fic planned for that!) I hope someday I can do more with Feuilly, but I never really know what to do with Grantaire . . .
> 
> Today's Musical Title is a lyric from "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof! ("One Season Following Another" was a little too on-the-nose, and "Swiftly Flow the Days" made me too sad to think 1831, the last full year they'd be alive, was passing too quickly!) Now Fiddler and Les Mis might be an interesting musical crossover as well; if nothing else, Les Amis and Perchik would get along like a house on fire! XD
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_Spring_

It was spring, and Joly was rambling through the Luxembourg Garden, swinging his umbrella jauntily, trying to identify each distinctive birdsong by species. True, the springtime spores were at their height, which always seemed to contort his sinuses and obscure his sense of smell, but there was more than enough beauty in his other senses to compensate. The sun was shining, a light breeze blowing, the birds warbling forth their merry carols, the dew-strewn flowers just transitioning from bud into bloom. It seemed just the sort of day to fall in love, or to remind a neurotic scientist of the divine balance and unsought beauties of nature.

For a moment Joly braced himself on his cane, stood still, closed his eyes and breathed deep, feeling the breeze brush against his jacket and rustle through his hair, feeling the warmth of the sun through his eyelids and on his skin, and listening to the cheerful chattering of the birds and insects – until he heard one sound in this wild symphony that did not denote joy.

It was a half-stifled, frustrated sound, halfway between a sigh and a sob. Joly whirled in the direction of the sound, and saw, not far off, a prone figure lying beneath a tree. A prone figure very familiar to him.

“Jehan?”

Naturally, out of everyone he knew, Jehan was the one it surprised him the _least_ to find sprawled beneath a tree. But he would have expected, on such a fine day, that that nature-loving soul would be in ecstasy over the sublime beauty of nature. Yet instead Jehan’s expression was one of torment.

Jehan sniffled and his eyes startled open at the sound of Joly’s approach. “Oh,” he said, “Joly.”

Joly hastily sat down in the grass beside his friend. He tentatively laid a hand on his arm and tilted his head in concern. “Jehan, poor fellow, what’s wrong?”

Jehan heaved another heavy sigh. “The gods are punishing me for my hubris.”

“Oh?” Joly was really no more enlightened than before he had asked. “What, then? Did you – did try to create life from dead flesh and then lose sight of your creature – like old Dr. Frankenstein? And you didn’t even consult me on anatomy! Jehan, I’m _hurt_!” He offered his friend a smile with this weak jest, but Jehan did not return it.

“No,” he returned, absolutely solemnly, still staring skyward with deadened eyes, “but I sought a different sort of victory over death – I sought immortality. You understand, Joly? You – a medical man – are always seeking to hold back death!”

“Well, yes, of course – for as long as it can be! But I have never presumed to seek _immortality_ exactly –”

“Yes, you did not _presume_ ; you are too wise to aspire to such things!” His lips and his voice trembled more and more. Joly was still at a loss.

“Jehan, what –?”

“I sought immortality through words,” Jehan told him. “I sought to share my words and thereby make them immortal! _Why_ , Joly? Why was I arrogant enough to presume that they were worth the paper they were printed on?”

“Oh, my dear Jehan, your words – your verses are _beautiful_! Of _course_ they’re worth the paper!” Joly assured him at once. “Do you mean to say that you’ve – you’ve sought publication for them? Well, _I_ think that’s wonderful! They _ought_ to be shared with the world!”

“ _You_ tell me they’re beautiful, Joly,” Jehan returned, “but you are being kind, and you – _you_ like everything!”

“Yes, it’s true,” Joly admitted with a shrug and a rueful grin, “my good opinion is so _commonly_ bestowed, and therefore, perhaps – less worth the earning! Did – someone disagree with me, then? Did some _fool_ disparage them?”

“He is not a fool!” said Jehan in agony. “He is poet himself! He _knows_ what he says – and he wrote in his review that my verses were ‘contrived, sensational and overwrought!’ And now – and now I look all around me – at the beauty I have always sought to capture – but can scarce bear witness to it without _those words_ reverberating in my head! What do _I_ have to say about it, Joly? What’s the _use_?” And he squeezed his eyes shut, and gave a gasping sob.

Joly let out a sigh, and then lay down beside him in the grass, and took hold of his hand. His sinuses protested to this proximity to the grass, and when he tried to gaze at the sky, it was so bright it hurt his eyes. He pressed them shut, and then said, “Close your eyes.” Since his own eyes were closed, he couldn’t tell whether Jehan had obeyed, but he was inclined to believe he had. “Since you cannot _see_ the beauty today, what beauty can you _hear_?”

“Well – the birdsong, of course,” Jehan replied uncertainly. “But there is nothing very original in that observation!”

“And what else? Tell me more!”

There was a pause. “The breeze is shaking the leaves,” he said, “and a young girl’s laugh! Oh, she sounds delighted! What has brought her this joy? And beside her, a lower laugh, an old man’s laugh – he laughs in joy because _she_ is happy! The rustling of the sparrows’ wings – the buzz of insects – they live such short lives, and surrounded by all the birds and predators who might eat them! Yet they go so merrily about their work! Further off, the splashing of the swan-pond, where people toss their excess bread – they ought to know there’s better uses for excess bread! And there – yes! – the call of the nightingale! Singing in the daytime, unlike his sleeping brothers, to mix with to the symphony of all the other species – with all nature! The nightingale, who never studied, never sought immortality, yet _just_ from joy, just from the mysteries of the deep heart of nature, the spirit of divine inspiration, he _knows_ to create such a lovely song! Oh, the nightingale knows better than so many foolish scholars!”

Joly smiled. “You see?” he whispered. “ _That_ was beautiful! Your very _thoughts_ are beautiful, my friend! For they are so _free_ , Jehan! You do not limit yourself, your expression, or the depths of your feelings, to the arbitrary standards of other poets or stuffy old newspapers! My dear fellow, take this nightingale as your sign that _your_ voice, _your_ perspective, _your_ words – they, too, can be a part of a divine symphony! They, too, have their place, and they too, can bring joy and inspiration – perhaps not to _all_ , but to _enough_ that they are worth their own creation!”

Joly heard Jehan give another ragged breath. Joly, slightly alarmed, opened his eyes and rolled slightly to look over at him. He was blushing deeply and his lips were quivering, his eyes shining, but he was wearing a smile again.

“God bless you, Joly,” he choked.

Joly’s smiled widened. Though Jehan was a sensitive soul, and easily wounded, his spirit so naturally inclined toward the light, and could spin beauty and wonder and signs of hope out of nearly anything he was shown. Joly sat up again, giving Jehan’s hand a little squeeze. “Come, shall we get indoors? There’s rainclouds approaching now.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” said Jehan, smiling, “let’s stay! The storms of life bring their own inspiration! The duality of spring! Ha! That fellow says ‘overwrought’ – why, I’ll _give_ him ‘overwrought!’ And there’s something _sublime_ in the sensation of the falling rain upon your face!

“But – but you could catch cold!”

Jehan regarded Joly with fond pity. “ _You_ can go, my dear fellow, you’ve done enough for me!”

But Joly took a deep breath and then resolutely lay back down in the grass. “I’ll stay awhile,” he said stubbornly, “but – but afterwards, you _must_ come to my rooms and change clothes and wrap up in blankets and drink tea by the fire and dry off!”

“That sounds nice,” smiled Jehan, and he pulled Joly’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you for your warmth, my dear fellow – and for staying to witness the wilder beauties with me!”

Joly returned his smile, and they settled back to await the storm.

“Did you know that some people consider a bolt of lightning to be the spark of connection between two souls falling in love?” Jehan asked dreamily, gazing up at the sky.

“Do you know, I can believe it,” replied Joly. “Poetry and science need not be in opposition! The electric currents of the world have a great effect on our bodies; there are such electric sparks within us all, so who is to say that they don’t also affect our feelings, or our souls?”

“Perhaps electricity, then, is the spark of the divine,” Jehan mused. “Giving energy and direction to souls and minds – to work toward the divine purpose! And _love_ is often what spurs us into action!”

“Then a thunderstorm,” Joly smiled, “would be God’s great matchmaking festival!”

Jehan laughed in delight. “It is certainly a happier thought than the wrath of Zeus! A very ‘Joly’ thought, indeed! Perhaps I shall make a poet of you yet!”

“I very much doubt it,” said Joly, “but I shall always wish to hear yours, my friend!”

The first clap of thunder struck, sending a thrill of alarm throughout Joly’s frame, and his left hand shooting up to feel along his carotid artery.

But Jehan gave his right hand a squeeze, and said softly, “ _Kol b’seder_ , Joly _mio_!”

Joly didn’t have to ask what he meant, but merely took a breath and settled back to feel the first raindrops on his face, and to try his best to enjoy them.

_Summer_

It was summer, and Joly was trailing slightly behind Bossuet and Grantaire as they strolled through the Luxembourg Garden. It was that infernally hot part of the year often known as the dog-days of summer – which, according to Jehan, was because of the astronomical position and prominence of Sirius the Dog-Star. Even the seasons seemingly could not change without great tumult, and a cacophonous barrage of thunderstorms had been needed to force the gentle spring’s ultimate abdication to the harsh summer. The conquering summer now beset everyone with sweat and thirst, burned the skin, spoiled food, and in its worst rages, caused fainting fits with its intensity. In Joly’s opinion, it was not at all a good time to be outside.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” he told Bossuet.

“My dear fellow, there’s no harm in it! It’s only satisfying our curiosity!”

“But it’s not our _business_!”

“And what _is_ our business?” put in Grantaire. “Some of us have no business at _all_ , so what shall we _live_ for but the vain hope of satisfaction?”

“Besides,” Bossuet added brightly, “a fellow like _him_ , you _must_ be curious about what sort of girl has turned his head! And if we can gather useful intelligence, who knows? We might even be able to do him a good turn in his pursuit!”

“After all,” said Grantaire, “the three of _us_ have had the most experience with women!”

Joly sighed. Though Grantaire’s assertion might technically be true in their cases – and he was less than certain it was, if Courfeyrac were also in the running – _experience_ did not always equate to _success_. In his own case, he wouldn’t say he had much experience with women in the _plural_ – only a very fortunate liaison with _one_. But the remembrance of that singular woman – of all the joy and wonder she brought to his life – made his heart soften in pity toward all those melancholy souls who still pined for the wild ecstasies of love.

For the raging summer, if Jehan’s theory was to be believed, was not the only result of those transitional tempests. Joly had thought the blooming spring a time to fall in love, and according to Courfeyrac, Marius had gone and done just that. Yet he would not say a word about the object of his affections, nor even confirm that there _was_ one, so all poor Courfeyrac had to go on were Marius’s dreamlike wanderings, which always took him to the Luxembourg Garden. Today, therefore, on Bossuet’s whim, the three of them had gone to investigate – or, no, to speak truth, to _spy_ on him. And it had been cleaving Joly’s conscience in two directions since they’d departed on this mission.

But Bossuet understood him without words, and could tell, from the reluctant smile now forcing itself across Joly’s face, that his dual appeals to curiosity and the service of love had shifted the balance.

“Fine,” he said resignedly, “if he’s there, and _she’s_ there, we’ll get a quick look!” 

The others cheered.

“Don’t look so _satisfied_!” Joly entreated as they turned onto a path lined with trees and benches. “I swear, I’m going to write to my father and finally tell him what a bad influence you are! _Preying_ on my weakness for gossip!”

“Oh? What will he do then?” wondered Bossuet. “Reduce your allowance so can’t pay for half my meals anymore?”

“No, I should think he’d _increase_ it,” Joly returned, “on the condition that I set you up in your own quarters!”

“What a _lonely_ life that would be!” grinned Bossuet. “But you could never be so heartless, Joly! No, Jolies are not _capable_ of being heartless! Besides, if _anyone’s_ a bad influence, my dear fellow, need I remind you who invited _who_ to join an _actual_ rebellion?”

“Well, that’s splitting hairs,” muttered Grantaire. “We can all blame Enjolras for that! Where _is_ Marius, anyway? Isn’t this where he walks?”

“Perhaps _love_ makes him a little irregular in his habits,” Bossuet said, shrugging and leisurely sitting himself down on one of the benches. “We can wait.”

“But we shouldn’t stay out in this heat for too long!” Joly protested. “Prolonged exposure at these temperatures is not safe!”

Grantaire snorted as he flopped down beside Bossuet. “For pity’s sake, Joly, it’s only a bit of sunshine!”

Joly sat down on Bossuet’s other side. “Oh _really_ , Grantaire? Do you know how many patients I’ve seen with sunstroke or heat exhaustion in the last week? It’s _not_ pretty! It’s _not_ a laughing matter! The sun can _kill_ a man! Especially if he’s taken no precautions to protect himself!”

“We’ll be alright, Joly –” Bossuet began.

“ _You_ don’t even have a hat!” said Joly despairingly. “Your scalp is going to burn!” Sighing fondly, he removed his own and placed in on Bossuet’s head. “At least my hair will offer me a _little_ protection! Oh, I wish we could all wear bonnets or carry parasols! Or fans! _Fans_ must be selling like mad! Feuilly had better get a raise or something out of this!”

“But in the absence of all the ladies’ accessories,” grinned Grantaire, reaching and rummaging for something in his baggy jacket, “at _least_ we won’t get thirsty!”

“Oh!” Joly sighed in relief. “You at least brought water, then?”

“ _Water_!” scoffed Grantaire as he produced his flask. “Who do you think you’re _talking_ to, Joly?” He took a quick swig and then offered it to Joly.

“But _alcohol_ will not help us stay hydrated!”

“Quiet, you two,” said Bossuet suddenly. “Marius is here.”

They hastened to look. Marius, dressed in sweltering black, had just turned the corner onto this path, and Bossuet had hastened to pull his borrowed hat down over his eyes, but was no need: Marius had a vague look in his eyes, and appeared to see nothing of them, or of his surroundings at all. His eyes were instead fixed – _trans_ fixed – on some place a short distance away. They all turned to follow his gaze – and saw a bench where a white-haired old man sat. As the bench was directly parallel to their own, they couldn’t tell if anyone else was sitting beside him, and if they moved from their position, Marius would be more likely to notice them spying.

Marius approached this bench intently, kept walking a short distance beyond, and then abruptly turned around and walked back in their direction.

They had enough warning this time that Bossuet could pull out a newspaper and hide behind it, Grantaire could lay his head back and tilt his had over his eyes as if sleeping, and Joly could only bow his head and stare intently at his lap. Marius passed close by them, made back to the beginning of the path – and then turned around again to repeat the process.

“What is he _doing_?” hissed Grantaire, after he had passed by them yet again.

“It’s clear enough, isn’t it? His girl must be on that bench!” said Bossuet.

“He must be too shy to introduce himself, poor fellow!” Joly added mournfully.

They watched this proceeding thrice more – with Marius passing right in front of them each time, without noticing them at all. Bossuet and Grantaire both buried their faces to stifle their laughter, but Joly, seeing Marius’s anguished expression each time he passed by, could only pity him the more, and writhe with secondhand embarrassment. 

Something had to be done, but what? If they gave away their position now, it might wound Marius further with their invasion of his privacy, and sow a divide between them. But languishing in the heat watching Marius work himself into a fever was even worse.

“Listen,” he whispered slowly to his friends, “I’ll – I’ll try to get a look at her, and then let’s _please_ get out of here!” And without waiting for a response, he leaned on his cane and surged to his feet. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he felt the sweat drip across his forehead.

He wiped his forehead, staggered slightly, cursed the sun, barely refrained from cursing his friends, and quietly crossed the path to try and get a better vantage point to see the other half of the old man’s bench. But the angle and distance were still not enough, so he moved closer, along the edge of the path, just as Marius turned around walk in his direction again.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Marius was so hyper-focused he might not notice him even now, or he could just think he was out for a stroll for completely innocent reasons. He kept walking, trying to keep his gait steady and natural, while he honed in on the bench.

There _was_ a girl. She was a pretty young girl in a black dress with chestnut brown hair, and as Marius passed her by yet again, she gazed at his retreating back with curiosity and confusion. As another trickle of sweat moved down his forehead, and he saw, once more, Marius’s approaching look of agony, suddenly inspiration struck.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, once he was certain he was in plain view of Marius, clapping a hand to his forehead and swaying exaggeratedly, “ _oh_ , the _heat_!” And he sunk dramatically to his knees. Marius at once dashed up to him and knelt down beside him.

“Joly? Are you all right?”

“So hot . . . _dizzy_ . . .” he replied in a weak little voice. And he closed his eyes and clutched his head. He heard the heavier footfalls of the others dashing over toward him as well.

“Joly! Are you –?”

“What d’you need?”

“Fine, fine,” he slurred. “Just dizzy.” He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. 

Marius had a hand on one of his shoulders, Bossuet on the other. Behind them, the girl was now gazing at Marius now in admiration. As he’d planned – nothing could cast Marius in a better light to her than demonstrating his genuine good nature by heroically dashing to the aid of some feeble friend. 

But the girl and her father were now approaching, so Grantaire quickly stood to assure them they were all right, that they had the situation well in hand. And perhaps to get a closer glimpse of the girl as well.

“What do you need, Joly?” Bossuet repeated.

“Just shade, and cool, and – maybe something sweet,” he said weakly.

“Like ice cream?” suggested Marius.

“R? Where’s the best café for ice cream?” Bossuet called as Grantaire came back.

“Oh? That’d be the Café Voltaire. This way!”

Bossuet and Marius pulled Joly to his feet as they all followed Grantaire out of the garden. Marius and Bossuet kept their hand on him as if concerned he was going to faint at any given moment, and his conscience pricked a little. He’d just been fretting about the _spying_ feeling dishonest, and now he’d done this! He thought his acting had been very subpar, but perhaps his reputation had carried off the performance nonetheless. Despite the beliefs of his least favorite nanny – who had apparently thought it impossible for errant children to be genuinely ill – it was the first time in his life he had deliberately pretended to be ill when he was not. 

But he told himself that the worry would soon be forgotten, and it had been for a good cause. For the gambit had paid off: Marius had impressed his girl, and twenty minutes later, the four of them were all cheerfully eating ice cream in the cool shade of an awning. And if the others ever guessed that he hadn’t really been _quite_ so near fainting, they never said a word.

_Autumn_

It was autumn, and Joly strode briskly through the Luxembourg Garden alongside Feuilly. After all its raging and blazing, the oppressive summer seemed to have burned itself out, and surrendered to the natural succession of mild cool autumn without much fanfare. The air was fresh and crisp, the leaves fluttering down and crunching underfoot in a vivid spectrum of warm hues. True, colder weather always made his bad knee stiff, but as yet the chill was still bracing and energizing; it had not yet turned bitter and choking. Joly wrapped up in his favorite knitted scarf and breathed deep.

Feuilly, beside him, was speaking with great energy of a client who had commissioned a custom fan. “She was a _fascinating_ woman, Joly! She said she wanted it to commemorate her trip to Venice, so I’ve got a canal in the foreground with the bridge and boat, and the silhouettes of the skyline at sunset – of course with St. Mark’s Basilica and all – though I’m still working out how to incorporate the carnival masks . . . But, anyway, she’d gone there to visit her nephew – apparently, he ran away with an Italian girl, and then once he got there, he joined the independence movement, so he asked his aunt to take back some of his journals and sketches to his friends in France, to spread information about the conditions under the Lombardy-Venetia regime, and –” Feuilly suddenly paused, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth, and reached to rub at his shoulder.

“Are you all right, Feuilly?”

Feuilly sucked air in through his teeth. “Yes, just – just a little sore; too much bending over, too much repetitive arm movement at the wrong angle, too much tension. It’s nothing, Joly – _every_ workingman has their little aches and pains!”

“Surely they do, my poor fellow, but that is no reason to dismiss yours!” said Joly. “Can I help?”

“Oh, it’s really not that bad,” said Feuilly, shaking his head.

“No, no!” said Joly. “There are _many_ things we could try! I could start with a basic massage, just to try to ease the tension of the affected muscles! Or if that doesn’t work, we could go over to the icehouse district and try for the numbing effect, _or_ we could go with heat – there’s _much_ to be said for the soothing power of hot water padded through a blanket! Come, my dear fellow, do not deny a physician his purpose!”

Feuilly gave a little laugh. “You _really_ needn’t go to all that trouble! But – you can _try_ the massage, if you like!”

“Excellent!”

The pair quickly located an empty bench, and brushed aside a couple of vibrantly red leaves – Venetian red, Feuilly called them, and he ought to know – before getting into position. Joly sat down on the bench and Feuilly kneeled in front of it. Joly placed his hands on Feuilly’s shoulder blades. “Here?” he asked.

“Yes – and a little lower – just that whole area, really,” Feuilly replied. “You know, a couple of weeks back, Enjolras tried to do this for me?”

“Oh? How was _his_ massage technique?”

“Well – I suppose I _did_ feel better afterwards, but he gripped and pressed so hard, it felt like a _hammer_ while it was happening,” Feuilly laughed.

“Well then, I shall endeavor to be gentler than Enjolras,” Joly assured him, and began to move his thumbs and the heels of his hands rhythmically against Feuilly’s back. “Did you _tell_ him it hurt?”

“I couldn’t tell _Enjolras_ he was hurting me; it would break his heart!” Feuilly said fondly. “Besides, he was only trying to help. And he did, in the end.”

“An expedient – if violent – solution for a future without pain,” Joly nodded sagely. “Sometimes necessary, as we know – but happily, not always! But my _word_ , Feuilly,” he added as he gently increased the pressure of his soothing circles, “your trapezius feels like knotted _steel_! You get this just for doing your job?”

Feuilly only shrugged. “Things are tense sometimes,” he said softly, “I’m sure you understand! And workloads vary if there’s extra orders or if others are sick – it’s the just the life.”

“Poor fellow!”

“Well, I’m sure your work in the hospital in no breeze, either!”

“Oh, it’s still early days of the new internship now, mostly just following the real doctors around,” Joly laughed. “I’m sure it’ll get harder once they actually entrust me with patients – perhaps then we shall have to change places! – but while my burden is relatively light, I – I hope to do what I can to lighten others’!”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re very good at it, Joly,” Feuilly told him. He closed his eyes let out a sigh of satisfaction. “That feels _amazing_!”

Joly flushed with delight. “Well, I have a little experience,” he said. “Back home, our village was mostly farmers – spending all day tilling the fields – so when they came back in the evenings, to relax in the tavern, they had all sorts of aches and pains. And, well, I thought, because I’d read a bit about muscles, I could be of some use.”

“Was little Joly dashing about his village, trying to relieve the pain of _all_ the worn workingmen?” Feuilly laughed incredulously.

“Sometimes, when he was well enough,” said Joly, “little Joly tried his best!”

Feuilly grinned. “Mine was a factory town,” he said, “so the workers there probably didn’t have exactly the same sorts of strain, but – I’d imagine such pains are a universal complaint of manual laborers!”

“But wouldn’t that be a _fascinating_ study!” Joly exclaimed. “What sorts of muscles are strained differently by different sorts of work! How a miner’s differ from a dockworker’s! Then, one could implement the necessary care and relief into the infrastructure of each factory and mine and – well, I don’t know how it would work with independent farms . . .”

“Right now,” Feuilly said thoughtfully, arching his back to allow Joly’s thumbs to dig in between his shoulder blades, “farm laborers all across Europe and beyond will be harvesting their crops, readying themselves for the winter. And their livelihood will depend entirely on the caprice of nature – of good or bad crops! And they are often so isolated in their rural regions that they have little idea of all that is brewing and debating in the great cities! They may not even dare to dream of a rest from their labors, or a chance at any more security!”

“Well, surely, in our Republic, we can change that, little by little,” said Joly brightly, “if we have _you_ to remind us of their plight!” He gave Feuilly’s shoulder one final pat, and then dropped his exhausted arms. “Any better?”

Feuilly twisted and flexed his shoulder experimentally, then smiled. “Perfect,” he said, straightening up, and then offering Joly a hand to rise as well. “Thank you, my friend. In the new Republic, I shall vote to give every workingman his own personal Joly!”

_Winter_

It was winter, and Joly, alas, had little time or energy for strolls in the Luxembourg Garden. Winter and workload had struck suddenly and in force, a violent, icy ambush that frightened away the calm chill of autumn without warning. Joly, who took a chill from a cold word, bundled himself as best he could, but still found himself shivering at intervals, and his bad knee sometimes stiffening almost to paralysis. The hospital was inundated not only with the flus of the season, but with people who had had bad falls from slipping on the ice, and a few cases of frostbite and hypothermia. Still, the snow fell gracefully, and sparkled prettily once it had found the ground.

It had not been light all day; the sun had barely peaked out from between the dreary clouds, and no matter how he had cursed it in the dog-days, Joly now missed its golden rays. He’d been nearly run off his feet by incessant calls both from pained, frightened patients and weary senior doctors who wanted coffee, but he answered to both with resolute cheer. Now, though, as he neared the end of his shift, Joly was flagging – his knee throbbing, his hands trembling, weariness weighing down his every limb, he braced himself against the wall beside the front entrance, head bowed, and tried to restore himself with an enormous breath.

“You still here, Joly?”

Joly whirled around to face Dr. Montjoy, a sturdy middle-aged man with a gentle voice and a twinkle in his eye, who was one of Joly’s favorite superiors.

“Five more minutes, sir,” Joly replied, in a feebler voice than he’d intended, indicating his pocket watch that he’d just stowed again.

Dr. Montjoy gave a tight smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, lad,” he said kindly. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joly breathed, “but my coat hasn’t returned yet.” Before the doctor could do more than tilt his head quizzically, he hastened to explain. “I sent a gamin out – to buy me a hot chocolate at the at the new Café Carthage a street away – but it looked so cold out there I lent him my coat, and he has yet to return.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Ten minutes? No, longer – it was right before I was called to attend to Madame Bordey, at any rate. Perhaps there’s a line at the café – a lot of demand for hot drinks, I should think, on a day like this!”

“Well, I’d give him another ten, but after that, I’d consider the possibility that your little friend has no intention of returning a perfectly nice warm coat.”

“ _Oh_.” This had not occurred to him. Before he could begin to fret about either his privileged ignorance or the prospect of getting home without a coat, the entrance doors beside them suddenly banged open, blasting them with a harsh gust of icy air and snowflakes.

A thin man, shivering, wearing no coat himself, staggered inside, carrying in his arms a pale, ragged, unconscious young boy, wrapped up in his own dark coat.

Joly blinked. The man was Enjolras.

“Sir!” he gasped. “Please, you’ve got to help him, I – I found him like this – passed out in a snowdrift!”

“Give him here, lad, I’ll see to him,” said Dr. Montjoy at once, hastening to ease the boy from Enjolras’s arms into his own. “No, no, I’ve got him, Joly! You’ve done enough today!” he added before Joly could do more than open his mouth. And without another word, he carried the boy away down the hall to try and restore him. Joly stared after them a moment, but soon tore his eyes away to turn back toward where Enjolras was still standing.

Enjolras was as ghostly pale as the drifted snow, and the snow sparkled where it had lodged in the curls of his billowing hair, which was half-falling out of its ribbon. He was still panting and trembling violently from his coatless journey, and there was an odd, dull look in his staring eyes that seemed to reflect the sunless sky – as if their natural light was obscured by dark clouds.

Joly laid a hand tentatively on his arm. “Enjolras?”

“Oh,” breathed Enjolras, as if he had just noticed him, “Joly.”

“Come, poor fellow, let’s get you warm!” he said, seizing his arm and pulling him into Dr. Montjoy’s office, where the dying embers of a once-glorious fire crackled feebly in the grate. Joly pulled Enjolras into the doctor’s chair, and scanned around for logs to add to the fire. But the doctor had been so busy he’d barely been in his office all day, and no one had restocked the supply of wood.

Joly cast frantically about for other means of warmth while Enjolras continued to shiver. Where on _earth_ was that gamin he’d given his coat to? Had he given that gamin his scarf and mittens along with his coat? How ethical or sanitary would it be to steal a blanket from one of the empty beds? _Were_ there any empty beds? Or perhaps he could borrow Dr. Montjoy’s coat? “Sorry, _sorry_ , Enjolras,” he muttered desperately, resorting, for the moment, to simply running his hands briskly along Enjolras’s back and arms to try and manually warm them up with friction, “I’ll try and find _something_ to –”

But he paused in his frenetic movement as his gaze fell again on Enjolras’s pallid face, and his blank, staring eyes. He had very pliantly allowed Joly to drag him here, and hadn’t said a word since acknowledging him.

“Are you all right, Enjolras?” he asked, tilting his head.

Enjolras drew a ragged breath. “It’s – it’s my birthday next week,” he breathed, in an odd, flat, whisper-soft voice. “I’ll be twenty-six – that’s got to be – more than _twice_ that boy’s age – and yet he –” Enjolras’s chest heaved and his voice seemed suddenly to die, as if some great blow had knocked the air from his lungs. He leaned over and shaded his eyes with his left hand, while the right clenched the armrest and trembled - perhaps not entirely from cold.

“Oh, _Enjolras_ . . .” Joly murmured, wrapping an arm around him and stroking his shoulder once again. Despite the latter’s youthful features, Joly often forgot that Enjolras was technically younger than him. He was not _much_ younger – only April to December of the same year younger – and he usually had the air of an ageless, immortal being, and commanded his older comrades with unquestioned authority. At that moment, however, Joly looked at Enjolras and saw but a tender boy struggling with a the burdens of the ages - a younger boy who might have seen less death than he. 

“Combeferre keeps saying,” Enjolras pressed on, his voice ragged but rising, after he had swallowed whatever had stopped his throat before, “that progress will _take its course_ – that the world cannot change all at once – let’s wait and see how things turn out – but still, _children_ are dying in the streets! They cannot _wait_ for the world to change! They need it _today_! They needed it _yesterday_! All this _talk,_ all this effort, all this _rhetoric,_ but what have we _done_ for them?”

“You brought that boy to the hospital,” Joly pointed out. “You might have saved his life!”

“ _One_ boy, _maybe_ , if he even survives,” Enjolras said dully, “one boy out of thousands – _millions!_ It is not enough, Joly.”

“No,” Joly agreed, “it’s not enough, but – but it’s not _nothing_ , either.”

Joly took a breath and shifted position so that he was kneeling at Enjolras’s feet, clasping his icy fingers between both his hands, still trying to chafe a little warmth into them, and looking up steadily into those clouded eyes.

“Our – our lives may be _little_ , Enjolras,” he faltered, “but – but what we do – everyday – to _cure_ and _correct_ the ills and the wrongs – that cannot be nothing! Or what business would doctors _have_?” He drew another unsteady breath, cursing his lack of eloquence. “You – _you_ see the immensity of it, the _grand_ scale, so clearly – you see how the _world_ ails without a its cure, the revolution! _You_ show us your vision, of the beautiful new world! But little people like _me_ – well, we naturally see the _little_ things before us! And I have to believe – they _matter!_ Even little – little _kindnesses_ to friends – _everything_ \- the people - are all -" He moaned, hopelessly muddled, and buried his face. This is why he was not an orator.

“The people - are _all_ little people,” Enjolras finished for him, squeezing his hand back, “like us. The immense is composed of such atoms of humanity.”

Joly nodded vigorously. "So instead of thinking of the world you have _not_ yet saved," he said raggedly, "think of all the good you _have_ done for little people, Enjolras! Think of that boy! Think of your - your _little_ friends that you are always so kind to!"

"They _\- you_ are very kind," said Enjolras, not quite smiling, but looking Joly in the eye with a sort of fierce pride, "and you are never to think you are a _littler_ man than I!"

Joly gave a blushing smile. "Well," he said, "I am a _bit_ shorter!"

A tiny, surprised breath of laughter bubbled up from Enjolras's throat. The merry little sound seemed to shatter the icy gloom that had settled on the room. "Ah, Joly," he sighed fondly, seeing his earnest, worried expression just clearing away, "I am sorry to have troubled you with - with my melancholy. In my heart I _know_ better, of course. You must not doubt that! I know the people _will_ rise, and the new world _will_ dawn; and the children will be able to come in from the cold! I have not – I _cannot_ cease to believe that _._ It is only - it is only so _dark_ out there sometimes . . ."

Joly tenderly brushed a few sparkling drops of snowmelt from Enjolras’s golden curls. "The sun is still there, Enjolras,” he smiled, “even if it’s hidden under a few clouds today!”

There was the sudden slam of doors, and a flurry of snowflakes, and next second, a small boy came barrelling into the office, a still-steaming cup clutched in his hands, and Joly's jacket hanging on him down past his knees. "I've got it, Monsieur Joly!"

"Ah, thank you, Navet!" Joly smiled, accepting the cup. "Was there a _terribly_ long line at the café?"

"No, but Gavroche needed my help to win a snowball fight first," the boy replied matter-of-factly, as he brushed snow off of Joly's coat before starting to ease out of it.

"Well, naturally! One must never desert their brothers-in-arms!" Joly laughed, as he set the cup on the desk and accepted the wadded coat as well. "Though I feel a perfect _monster_ to take this away from you now!" For the boy now had but one thin, ragged shirt to separate him from the chill outside. Joly bit his lip. "Listen, Navet, don't go away yet!" And he turned to drape the coat over Enjolras, who was still faintly shivering from his coatless journey through the cold.

"I wouldn't leave without my tip, sir!"

Joly nodded, then picked up the steaming cup of hot chocolate and, sparing himself one grimace for the warmth and sweetness he had waited so long for, he offered this, too, to Enjolras.

"Joly, no!" said Enjolras. "You _paid_ for that."

"Happy birthday, Enjolras!" he persisted, shoving the cup stubbornly into his hands. "Come! You _need_ it! You haven't shaken your chill! People can _die_ of a chill, Enjolras!" 

"We could - share it, then, perhaps?" Enjolras suggested.

Before Joly could protest the sanitation of drinking from the same cup, they suddenly heard the door creak again, and both whirled around to see Dr. Montjoy. With one look - a little smile and nod - they knew.

"He's going to be all right," he assured them at once. 

"Oh, thank _God,"_ breathed Enjolras.

"God had a hand in it, perhaps," Dr. Montjoy returned, with a crooked smile, "but so did you and I. Credit where credit is due, my lad! Seems you brought that boy just in time. He'll stay overnight, and - any other details I am _too_ tired to think about now, and Joly and I can discuss tomorrow. Here!" And he tossed Enjolras's dark coat at him, which Joly hastened to reposition.

"Thank you _so_ much, Dr. Montjoy," said Joly fervently.

"You're very welcome," the doctor returned, his twinkling eyes shifting from the gamin still loitering beside the desk, to Enjolras, and back to Joly. "But now everyone's got their coats back and looks marginally less distressed, might I please have my _office_ back?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, of course!" muttered Joly, at once a frenetic flurry of gathering things up. "Come, Enjolras," he said, offering him his hand to rise, "shall we go and buy these _little_ fellows some coats of there own?"

Enjolras took his hand with a smile, and as he rose, Joly could see the roses blooming in his cheeks again, and light once more blazing in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Was the Jehan vignette based on my residual trauma from getting one bad review on a Merlin fic I wrote as a teenager?? Was the Feuilly one based on my chasing the old intimacy of my college friends and I sitting in circles giving each other back massages to relieve our mutual stress?? Was choosing the seasons to go with the characters entirely based on "vibe"? Like Jehan just has a springtime vibe, and Feuilly just has a fall vibe?? Was my deciding Enjolras was born around Christmastime just because the man is Made of Symbolism anyway?? And Joly's a springtime baby because he's a ray of sunshine?? Was I deeply tempted to title this fic "A Man For All Seasons"? Am I ENTIRELY too enamored with the ambiguity of physical/metaphorical warmth?? Good questions. Probably the answer is "yes" to all of them! XD
> 
> "Kol b'seder" (כל בסדר) basically means "everything's alright" (lit. "all in order") in Hebrew! I was a very bad Hebrew student in college, but once in a fit of Stress I scrawled the phrase (in Hebrew characters) all over an entire sheet of notebook paper in attempt to reassure myself! "Joly mio" was more based on a letter I read (in a recent fit of Intensive English Romantics Research) where Leigh Hunt addressed John Keats as "Giovanni mio" (rather than "Dear John") in reference to him planning to go to Italy soon, a detail I apparently found adorable!
> 
> Seriously, the last "winter" one with Enjolras stone-walled me with intimidation and despair for DAYS!!! Your humble, neurotic, sentimental author had a bit of a Meltdown trying to write that part! XD (*banging head against wall, screaming* HOW! DO! ENJOLRAS! EMOTION!!! It seems Hugo did too good a job of making me be slightly *in awe* of this man . . .) Even now I can't tell whether it's all *poignant and poetic* like I wanted, or just a hopelessly maudlin mess. So let me know what you thought! (But be gentle, please! Or I shall have to go lie under a tree . . .)
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! :)


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